Privateers for the Crown 1 The Graduation of Ensign Dance Hollydon
by Darrell Grob
Summary: Ensign Dance Hollydon graduated from the Naval Academy of the Crown Commonwealth of Margra without a post-graduation assignment. During a last-ditch attempt to find her a posting, she was recruited by Navy Intelligence for a dangerous mission on the Stella Avalon with its notorious captain, Tok Barmer, Privateer for the Crown. This is how it began.


Privateers for the Crown #1

The Graduation of Ensign Dance Hollydon

©2019 Darrell T. Grob

The Naval Academy of the Crown Commonwealth of Margra was a very prestigious university and service academy, perhaps the most prestigious of all. Its honor roll of significant graduates was long and filled with names known throughout the Commonwealth. Holo-images of some of the Navy's most famous heroes, graduates all, were placed around the campus, all to remind the Academy's students of the importance of their tenure there. From being a plebe during their first year, then as Midshipmen and Midshipwomen during the second and third years, to when they were commissioned as Ensigns for the fourth and final year, the young people who passed muster and exited through the gates of the Academy as graduates, were the Commonwealth's leaders of the future.

They were also the protectors of the Commonwealth. Wherever the Navy was in space, that was the front line defense against the ever-present threat of aggression by the Jor Dor Collective.

Being a graduate of The Naval Academy of the Crown Commonwealth of Margra was significant. It meant something important.

Ensign Dance Hollydon loved space travel. To her, it was the most amazing and exhilarating thing she could do. That's why she persevered through the exhausting application process and entered the Naval Academy in the first place. She wanted to go into space and experience all the wonder that it held in store for her. Being an officer in the Navy, even a lowly ensign, seemed like the best way to accomplish that.

Her four years at the Academy were a good experience. She liked that it was a respectable lifestyle where she was surrounded by other motivated young adults just like her. Always a good student, she excelled at all her classes. And with the requirement that every cadet be involved in a sport of some kind, she earned honors in several, most notably track and field where she set two records at medium distance cross-country running, a talent she had no idea would be so important to her in the future.

She was an attractive and fit girl with long, auburn hair that she kept up in a Navy regulation-style bun. She also had a boyfriend, another cadet named Thad Dia, and just like any other couple at college, they both worked hard during the week, partied on the weekends with their friends, and did all the other normal couples stuff the rest of the time. They drank a little too much and consumed some illegal stims every now and then. Dance and Thad also enjoyed a fun sex life with each other, just like any other couple, and they pretended they were every bit as sexually colossal as the Jenkettys.

But then, nobody's sex life was anything like the Jenkettys.

All in all, Dance Hollydon seemed just like any other cadet: straight as an arrow, perky, overly enthusiastic, and duty bound to the ideals of the Crown. But she also had a stubborn streak that got her in trouble sometimes.

As part of her training at the Academy, Dance had already been to all ten Crown planets along the exhaustively patrolled space lanes that connected them. But her Academy travels were always on board the large capital frigates and dreadnoughts. They didn't even seem like they moved to her. She wanted to feel a deck vibrate under her feet. She wanted the sensation of inertia shifting when a vessel accelerated or even turned slightly, like when she was at the helm of one of the small training shuttles. She just wanted to fly.

But her life at the Academy was almost over. Graduation was only a week away, and after that, she would begin her service in the Navy. She would most likely take her place as an anonymous Junior Officer on some boring assignment, just more fodder for the cannons. She would be just another insignificant, trivial gear in the machine of the Navy of the Crown Commonwealth of Margra.

There was one problem though; she didn't have an assignment yet.

Lieutenant Mickel, Chief of the Academy Post-Graduate Assignment office, was a nice enough woman. She was diligent and competent, but ultimately, she was a desk-weary bureaucrat marching inexorably, albeit slowly, to retirement in a couple of years hence.

Her office door chime signaled, and she pressed a button on her desk to open it. The door slid to the side, and in walked her least favorite Ensign of all. "Well, Miss Hollydon, it is a pleasure to see you again, I guess. How long has it been? Two? Three weeks?" Dance politely and according to regulation saluted the senior officer and waited until that same senior officer returned the salute back. The Lieutenant struggled to rise from her chair, one that her portly physique fit way too comfortably and easily into. She saluted. "Please, be seated, Ensign."

"Thank you, Ma'am," Ensign Hollydon said crisply. "I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice. With graduation being next weekend, I'm sure you're quite busy."

"Yes, I noticed. Dance, we are at the eleventh hour with this, and we still haven't nailed down your first assignment yet. But I do so enjoy our little get-togethers." Sarcasm came easily to someone as jaded as Mickel. "You came to see me, so you must have something up your sleeve. What juicy assignment have you heard some rumor about? What scuttlebutt has your eager little mind latched onto? What do you have for me today, Dance? I can hardly wait."

"Well, Ma'am, I just heard that there is a small squadron of a new class of light assault crafts about to be launched from the Crown shipyard on Retilance. The specs are making their way around the Academy. They're small. They have a small crew, ten persons or even less, and are to be given some very interesting missions: search and rescue, squadron attacks, infiltration, exfiltration, covert operations, and other clandestine operations of all different kinds."

"So, that's the kind of assignment you'd like, would you?" Mickel asked. Dance's natural enthusiasm prevented her from noticing the Lieutenant's snide and mocking tone. The older officer was quite annoyed by the young Ensign.

"Yes, Ma'am. I'd like that very much. Would you check for those assignments and see if any slots are still available?"

Mickel suppressed how annoyed she really was. "Miss Hollydon, you are a very nice young lady. Your performance in the Academy has been exemplary. You ranked #1 in combat training, marksmanship, field operations, navigation, and data sciences. You even aced the anthropology class, and most Academy students sleep through that one. Your dedication to excellence is admirable and well-noted in your academic file and service record. Your professors and instructors adore you. You're a very good young officer with a bright future. But just like every other Ensign that comes into my office for duty assignments, you must accept that there is a way that this is done according to not only tradition and protocol but by well-understood and established methods that fill specific needs within the fleet. And, at this time, the most needs that need to be filled are on the frigates and dreadnoughts. And you're the last graduate-to-be left that needs to be assigned. "

"I understand that Lieutenant, I really do," said Dance, "but I don't want to be on one of those large ships. They're so big and so … so … so dull! I know this sounds crazy, but I believe I have a different calling."

That stunned Lieutenant Mickel. "A calling? Do you really think you have a calling to be a spacer on some little attack ship? You're in the Crown Navy, not the priesthood." She looked past the ensign and talked to herself. "A calling; I can't believe I'm actually listening to this." She looked at Dance with annoyance, but she re-centered her attention on her mission to find suitable assignments for all the Academy graduates. "Young lady, there is a part of me that wants to kick your ass out of this office and right onto the next big, mind-numbingly boring ship I can find for you. It would serve you right for how you've pestered me for the last two years." She inhaled and exhaled deeply to collect her professional demeanor one last time. "Can we make a deal? Can we make one last, no-holds-barred deal to get you assigned to some ship somewhere doing something before the graduation ceremony next weekend?"

"What kind of deal would that be, Ma'am?" Dance asked back.

"The weekend is here, the last weekend of the semester, and the last weekend of your four years at the Crown Naval Academy. Go and have a nice weekend. You should want to celebrate. Go to a party, get drunk, do something you like to do, get laid, I don't care. Give me next week without you interfering with me. My end of the deal is that I will dig as deep as I can dig into every personnel request from every single unit in the damn fleet if I have to. I will try to find you some kind of assignment on a small craft that I think you would like. Your end of the deal is if I don't find anything you want, you will accept one of the other assignments I think are appropriate. Deal?"

Dance didn't waver. "Yes, Ma'am," she snapped, "that's very fair. I accept that. I hope you know I really haven't been trying to be difficult. This means a lot to me."

"I know, Dance," said Mickel. "You're a great young graduate, and I'll give this one more shot for you." Mickel wagged her finger at Dance. "But we have a deal, right?"

"It's a deal, Ma'am. Do we need to shake our hands or something like that?"

"No, we're both officers," said Mickel, "and our word is good. You'll be hearing from me by the end of next week, either way. And we will finally put this to rest."

Dance took the Lieutenant's advice and sat down in her quarters all weekend with a bottle of Porsis and got rip-roaring drunk. Her boyfriend, Thad, came over to commiserate with her. The more he drank, the more he was intent on frocking Dance. The more she drank, the sorrier she felt for herself. That made what Thad wanted easier to do.

"Thad, what are you doing, you jerk?" Dance slapped Thad on his chest.

"Stripping you, that's what," he answered, "but you're making it hard. Quit squirming so much."

She was a somewhat sloppy drunk. "Thad, you don't get it. My entire Navy career will start next week, and it could be on some kind of super-fast, super-cool, super-ice fighter or destroyer or whatever they're going to call the new class. Either that or I'll end up just another ensign on some big tub, no different than any other newbie ensign. By the stars, this sucks. What should I do, Thad?"

She slunk down onto the bed with him. He saw that as an opening. She said, "I'm really not in the mood for this, Thad." But the testosterone-filled young man got her tunic off and had moved his efforts to her leggings. "Okay, frock it. If you're going to be so pushy, let's get it over with." She waved her hands lazily in the air. "Wooooo! Hey, look, I'm into it, okay? Yay! We're going to have sex! See? I'm a Jenketty. I'm a helluva lover, aren't I, Thad?"

Thad stopped undressing his girlfriend. "Look, baby, I know you're really stressed out about this. I know it means a lot to you. But what's so bad about being on a big boat? The more people there are the less likely the top brass are going to give you any garbage. You'll be insulated from responsibility. You can serve your five years, get your walking papers, and walk right into some juicy job someplace. Companies love Academy graduates on their payroll. Sweet."

That pissed Dance off! She rolled out of bed and pulled her tunic and pants in front of her body. She then grabbed Thad by his hair, yanked him onto his feet, and pounded on him. "You bastard, you frocking bastard! Haven't you listened to anything I've said for the three years we've dated? Haven't you paid any attention to me? All you want to do is frock, frock, frock." She got so mad she started to cry. "Here! Is this what you want?" She threw her clothes at him and stood naked in the middle of the room. Everyone else on the floor heard her. "Here! Now! Come on, you miserable little twit. This is all I mean to you, isn't it? Well, here, take me. If this is all I'm worth, then frock you!" She picked up a chair and threw it at him. "Get out! Get out! Get out! I'm not going to go on some frocking frigate. I'm going to do something better, I swear, I'm going to do something better than that." Thad grabbed his clothes and scrambled out. She slammed the door to her room closed and collapsed on her bed. "This sucks! This isn't how I want it to be. I want to do something different, something amazing. And so help me, if I end up on a frigate, or worse a dreadnought, I'll frocking die."

That next week, Dance went about her classes for the last time. At the end of the week, she'd graduate and receive her orders to her first assignment, whatever that would be. But she held out hope that, still, Lieutenant Mickel kept her promise to find the perfect assignment for her.

Monday – No message from Lieutenant Mickel.

Tuesday – No message from Lieutenant Mickel.

Wednesday - No message from Lieutenant Mickel. Even during such an important week as that, the culmination of all her hard work, Dance had become resigned to a future she really didn't want.

But on Thursday...

Dance sat at lunch in the Academy mess. She usually sat with Thad, but she hadn't seen him since the weekend. She really didn't want to see him anyway. They were finished.

Her communicator signaled that she had a new message. It was from Mickel. "Hollydon, where are you right now?"

"The Academy Mess. Why?" Dance got nervous. Was this a good message from Mickel or bad?

"Come to my office right away, and don't say anything to anyone. Got it? Nothing to anyone."

"Yes, Ma'am. Nothing to anyone. Got it." The message disconnected. Dance sat for a few seconds and took in what had just happened. Could it really be? Did Lieutenant Mickel actually find her an assignment that she would actually like? She then jumped up, cleared her tray and plates, and hurried to the administration hall of the Academy.

Mickel waited for her in the hallway outside her office. "Did anyone follow you?"

"No, I don't think so. And I didn't tell anybody, just like you said not to."

"Good. Come into my office. There's someone who wants to meet you." Mickel let Dance in first.

There stood a Crown Navy officer dressed in his finest, most official looking, Crown Navy uniform. And he was excruciatingly handsome. They exchanged salutes.

He offered Dance his hand to shake. "Hello. I'm Commander Calen Root. I wanted to meet you personally. At ease."

Dance responded appropriately. "Thank you, sir?"

The Commander then turned to Lieutenant Mickel. "Lieutenant, may the Ensign and I use your office alone for a few minutes?" Mickel with enthralled with Root. It wasn't at all often that she was visited by such a distinguished, and handsome, visitor. "Lieutenant, did you hear me?" he asked.

"What? Oh. Yes, sir. My office. Right. I'll be outside if you need everything," she stammered.

He gently hustled her out of her own office. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'm sure we'll be just fine." After she was out, Root reached back and pushed the door button on the desk. It closed in her face.

"Now, you see, in Navy Intelligence, we at least hide our door buttons. Having it on top of the desk is a little too obvious." He sat down on the corner of the desk, very relaxed and poised. His demeanor was calming and reassuring.

Dance asked, "Excuse me, sir. Did you say you were with Navy Intelligence? Did I hear that right?"

"That is correct, Ensign. This is going to be a very different conversation than you're used to. It's not military. And because of the nature of our work and our culture, we aren't quite as stringent on protocol as the combat side of the Navy. Please, be as comfortable as you feel you'd like to be and don't hesitate to ask me any question that comes to you. Also, remember that the content of this meeting is classified and confidential. No one outside of this room is to know anything about what we are talk about. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. Perfectly clear."

"Good. Lieutenant Mickel herself did not reply to any kind of assignment posting or anything like that. We're not that conspicuous. At least we hope not. Our office regularly monitors many of the communications that come out of the Academy, and her most recent assignment searches and inquiries caught our attention. The description of an Academy graduate candidate she was inquiring for, that would be you, was similar to a profile for an intelligence position we need to fill. I guess you could say I jumped into line and created a dialog with her. She told me about your qualifications and what you were looking for in your first post-Academy assignment. After I examined your records, I was intrigued."

"This is in Navy Intelligence, sir?" she asked.

"Indirectly. Lieutenant Mickel said that you had expressed a great interest in an assignment on one of the new small attack ships that the Navy is currently developing on Retilance. They're still in flight testing, and filling the active duty rolls is months away. But I have to agree with you that serving on them would be a very exciting assignment. But they're just not ready."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," she said.

"Don't be. I have something in mind you might like even more. It's an assignment that if you're successful, you would be in a very good position to be chosen for an officer's posting on one of those new attack ships when the time comes. Furthermore, you would acquire a knowledge base and skill set that would easily elevate you above any other officer candidate. And frankly, you could become unique in the entire Navy." He had a sly smile on his face. "Would you like to hear about it?" he asked.

"Yes, sir! What kind of ship is it, sir?" she asked.

"It's a very good ship: small, fast, lethal." he answered. "It's not new, but it's damn better than anything else that's similar we have active at the moment. As a matter of fact, much of the technology we've put into it is being imported into the new attack ships."

"And what exactly are the missions, sir?"

"To be frank, you could be either inside or outside the reach of Navy Intelligence at any given time. The missions are either combat or covert in nature or both. There is an infinite number of circumstances you must adapt to. And it's important work too. You most definitely will be making a difference in protecting the subjects and interests of the Crown and government."

"It sounds dangerous, sir."

"It is, very. And you need to understand that there have been predecessors who took this assignment who have not returned. They fell in the line of duty. According to statistics, over the period of a year, you only have a little more than a 60% chance of surviving. And you'll be under the command of one of the most brazen, wild, reckless, but successful captains in all of Crown Space, maybe even in Frontier and Collective space also. And there's something else; for this assignment, after your graduation ceremony, as far as the Crown Navy is concerned, your personal history ends. You will cease to exist after that. You will be nothing but a memory, an idea, a spook, a ghost. Your records will disappear, and you will be disavowed. If something happens to you, if you get captured or killed, no one back here in Crown space will ever know. You will be 100% expendable. As a matter of fact, one of your most noteworthy qualifications is that you don't have any family alive."

She glossed over that point. "Yes, sir. My parents are both gone, and I didn't have any siblings. Can you tell me about the crew, sir? Is it a good crew?" she asked. That was more important to her than her family history.

He let a small laugh escape his official demeanor. "Oh, yeah. You'll love the crew. I guarantee it. But I cannot emphasize enough how dangerous this assignment is. I would be hard-pressed to name any other assignment in Navy Intelligence, or the military commands of the Navy, that equal this."

That was all Dance needed to hear. "I'm in," she said.

"Don't you want to hear the rest of the details about the assignment?" he asked.

"I don't need to," Dance said. "I'm in. Whatever it is, I'm in."

The Commander extended his hand to her to shake. "That is exactly what I expected, and hoped, you would say."

"What do I tell Lieutenant Mickel?" Dance asked.

"Anything you like. If she does her duty as an officer, the moment you graduate, she will not remember you at all. No one will."

As the cramped, pilotless, automatic, spaceport shuttle reached up into low-Margra orbit, the Stella Avalon came into view through the craft's window. Dance thought it looked like an old vessel, but it had been updated by Crown technicians so that it met or exceeded any performance specifications that existed at the time. She didn't know that part of its breeding. But while it's engineering components were top-of-the-line, its exterior was allowed to remain rough looking. The gray-green finish was dirty and messy which added to its anonymity. By all appearances, it was just another smuggler's starship: nothing special, nothing significant, and not worth a second look or thought. But it could fly faster and farther than almost any other ship when it needed to. It also packed an offensive wallop. It was a dangerous vessel to tangle with.

It seemed to hang motionless in space: peaceful, serene, without any encumbrance at all. Of course, Dance knew it hurtled around the planet at a hair over 28,000 kilometers per hour, as she did in the shuttle. But their relative speed toward each was less than ten kilometers per hour and decelerating. They gracefully and finally joined together with barely a bump between them.

She grabbed her gear bag and crouched at the shuttle door that had connected itself to Stella Avalon's airlock. She nonchalantly waited for the customary sounds of connecting machinery and venting air to cycle and fall silent, just like anyone had to do at an airlock on any ship. But inside her entire being, she was as excited as she had ever been about anything. She didn't know it then, but her life had just changed forever.

First, the heavy hinged door of the shuttle unlocked and slowly swung inward to the right. That revealed the airlock door on the Stella Avalon itself. More clicks and clanking came from behind it until that door itself slowly swung to the left. A human hand reached in.

"Throw me your gear. Let's get all that on board first." Whoever it was on the other side of the ship's bulkhead, he had a deep, gruff voice.

Dance followed the suggestion and tossed in her full kit bag and backpack. "There, that's all of it," she said.

"Good. You're a light traveler. Some people have come on board thinking this is some kind of luxury liner. It's not." The owner of that deep, gruff voice then reached his hand in and offered it to Dance. "Here, let me help you. It's a wide step."

"Thanks, you're right, it is," she replied. Inside and able to stand fully upright, Dance introduced herself to her new cohort. "I'm Ensign Dance Hollydon, the new Navy envoy." She extended her hand to shake.

"I'm Morty Kenson. People call me Chief. I used to be in the Navy too until I washed out. Come on, I'll show you to your quarters."

"Nice to meet you, Chief," Dance said. "Why did you wash out?"

"Leg injuries in an engine room accident. After I wasted some time feeling sorry for myself, I signed on with Tok, gosh, five years ago." They turned a corner into a common bunk room. There were four bottom bunks and four top bunks, all with privacy curtains. Across the common area of the room were small lockers and drawer sets. There was also a shower and sink they all shared too.

"Well, this is cozy," she said. "I'll add a few flowers there, a painting here, it'll be just like home."

"Are you some kind of smartass, Ensign?" he asked.

"Sometimes, Chief. Sorry, I couldn't help it," she answered.

"That's okay. A little smart-assery never hurts, I guess. But this room is the closest thing to a home for all of us. What about you?"

"It will be for me too," she said. "I have nothing on-planet."

"No family? Friends?" He seemed genuinely interested, and that surprised her a little.

"Nope. My family is gone, and it's funny how many friends I turned out not to have the moment we all graduated from the Academy. Plus, I pretty much was told I was going to be disconnected from all that type of thing when I accepted this assignment. I'm on my own."

All the bottom bunks looked like they were already called for. He tossed her bag onto a top bunk. "There, that one's yours. Newbies get to climb. We don't do any sleeping in shifts like in the Navy. When you're tired and your duties are done, you grab sleep when you can. I'll warn you now, I snore. And if you want to bring someone on board to frock, use the bed in the sick bay. It's usually empty, and it's bigger. That way we don't have to listen to you panting and groaning. You okay with that?"

"I guess so, sure. I've done coed bunking on training missions before. I know how it works."

Chief Kenson looked like many of the Chiefs, Master Chiefs, and career Non-comms Dance came across during her tours on Navy ships as part of her Academy training. He was stocky but strong, with tattoos that covered the parts of his arms that were visible, then ran up to his neck just to the edge of his chin. He also had a scar that ran up from his right cheekbone, across the bridge of his nose to his left eyebrow, then jagged up into his flat-top haircut.

"Let me tell you the rules here," he said. "Rule #2, no ranks. We're on a first name basis. Tok doesn't like that kind of formality. She'll tell you it's because she wants to encourage camaraderie and the like; you'll hear her talk a lot about the value of being a good shipmate. I think it's because she has a rebellious streak a parsec wide; she doesn't trust grand poobahs. As long as everyone does their job, everything is fine. Besides, she is right about the whole shipmate thing; the closer we are to each other personally, the safer we are. You always defend the people you care about most. But there's the other side of that; shlit happens out here and people you like die. It can be tough."

"Thanks for the heads up. I think I know what you're saying. It's okay to be close, but not so close that you can't handle it if something happens."

"Exactly. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. I like that."

"You said that was rule #2. What about rule #1?" she asked.

"We'll get to that," he said.

Dance then heard the unmistakable mechanical sounds of droids in motion. And they spoke in an entirely different way than she was accustomed to hearing. "Oh, goody, honey, the new crew member is here! I can't wait to meet her." Two pewter-colored, old-model droids stepped into the room. "Chief, why didn't you notify us? We were so looking forward to meeting her!" said the one with a female voice.

"Sorry, Cheeky, but I was getting around to it," he said back.

"For crying out loud, dear, we get newbies on board all the time," said the male-toned one.

"Dance Hollydon, this is Crank and Cheeky," said the Chief. "They're the maintenance and accommodations droids for the ship. Crank, Cheeky, I'd like you to meet Ensign Dance Hollydon."

"Ensign, schmensign, she's just another piece of meat to make a mess for us to clean up," Crank said.

"Sweetheart, it's okay with me. And she's such a lovely young girl. She won't be as messy as you boys are," said Cheeky. She reached up and fiddled with Dance's brown hair that was still up in a bun. "Tok won't like that. It looks too formal." She then spun Dance around and inspected her. "But she has a cute little tushie. I'm sure she's going to have to kill a few grabby goons who try to get touchy-feely with her. What color are your eyes, dear?"

"Blue, most of the time. They're brown naturally. I haven't checked in a while," Dance said.

Crank said, "Well, as soon as you get off-planet for a couple of days, they'll darken up. That always happens. I'm the engineer on board; I take care of Stella from bow to stern. Cheeky's the accommodations droid; she keeps you organics fed and the ship clean. She's also a medic droid."

"That brings up rule #3," said the Chief, "make your bunk and clean up your space every day. It makes Cheeky happy, and when Cheeky is happy, we all eat well."

Cheeky interrupted, "But when I'm not happy, it's emergency rations for everyone for a week. I'd guess you'd say it's a hot-button issue for me."

The Chief then said, "Besides, it's good manners. Nobody wants to see or smell your mess, especially me; my bunk is right below yours."

"Got it. I do that anyway," Dance said.

He then turned to Crank and Cheeky. "Okay, you two, get back to work. Dance and I have a lot to talk about."

The two droids left the room lightly bickering with each other.

"I think she's a cute girl," said Crank.

"You think they're all cute. You never say anything like that to me," chided Cheeky.

"You're a droid, Cheeky. Droids aren't cute. But I wouldn't mind diddling your circuits right now."

Cheeky slapped Crank across his chest plate with a loud clang. "Shhh. Not in front of the organics, you dirty old droid."

"I'll be. I've never seen or heard of a droid couple before," said Dance.

"Yeah, they're unique as far as I know," said the Chief. "A slicer who used to be on the crew thought it would be funny. It's okay, I guess. They're nice. Okay, I guess we need to talk about rule #4. It's this:" The Chief stuck his head out the door of the bunk room into the hall. "Okay, the coast is clear. Follow me." They snuck down the corridor to a cabin with a closed door. He whispered, "Shhh. Listen carefully."

Dance put her ear to the thick, heavy door and heard the unmistakable sound of a man and woman in ecstasy, and by the sound of it, the woman was firmly in control. But the man certainly seemed to be enjoying himself too.

The Chief pointed his finger to Dance to go back to the bunk room.

"Was that what I think it was, Chief?" she asked.

"Yep. Rule #4 is when the door to Tok's cabin is closed, do not disturb EVER. Do not knock, do not open, do not anything. You know she's a Jenketty, right?"

"Yeah, but I've never been around one," the young girl answered.

"I hadn't either until I signed on here. Tok says that it's not just a pleasure-thing but an actual physical need to, well, have sex on a regular basis. She's never really explained it to me. Whoever is in there with her is going to go back to the planet in the shuttle that brought you here. And if she doesn't have a partner, she, um, you know."

"I get the picture, Chief," Dance said. "I know the Navy's Rules of Intimacy. Sometimes you have to take things into your own hands."

"Oh, and as a side, you know that little poem about Jenketty lovers?" he asked.

"You mean, "If you want to find a lover who will make you hot and sweaty, then the lover you should look for is a beautiful Jenketty." That one? Everyone knows it."

"Yeah, that one. She hates it, I mean really hates it." The Chief was very adamant. "Whatever you do, do NOT recite that. Seriously, if you're lucky, she'll only beat the snot out of you."

"Got it – no Jenketty jokes."

The Chief then showed Dance to the flight deck. There were two of her new shipmates going through pre-flight checklists of some kind and otherwise preparing the ship to depart Margra.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet our new Navy envoy," he announced. "This is Dance Hollydon."

"Hi," she said timidly. She extended her hand to shake to the person nearest to her, a striking Uhneh. She was humanoid, bald, with green skin that changed color to a deep purple when the light hit her just right. The Uhneh folded her arms as a sign of contempt for the new crew member. "My name is Lina Karaay, I am a Uhneh warrior, and if you fail as my shipmate, I will kill you dead in your tracks. Consider this your only warning."

Dance slowly withdrew her hand. "Um, I'll remember that. It's nice to meet you too, Lina."

Suddenly, a new person jumped into her view. "Don't let her intimidate you. Lina does that to everyone new she meets. That's one of her charms. My name is Rory Dundan, the pilot of Stella." Rory was a typical space cowboy, a little wild, a little crazy, with ragtag clothing that looked like it used to be some kind of uniform, and a week's worth of stubble on his face."

"Thanks, Rory. So, you're the only one who knows how to fly the ship?" asked Dance.

"Heck no, we all do. But I'm pretty much a helm hog. I just love flying," Rory said. "I guess if Stella was a woman, you could say we were in some kind of relationship."

The Chief interrupted. "Rory, if Stella were a woman, she would have kicked your ass outta here a long time ago. But he's right about us all knowing how to fly Stella. You'll learn too. Rory will probably be the one to teach you."

"And I'm looking forward to it too," Rory said. "I hear you're a navigator. What kind of navigation systems can you operate?"

"Geon-440B, Geon-600, All the Terk systems. The usual Navy gear, I guess," she said.

Rory gave a thumbs-up. "That sounds good, you'll have no problems then. Stella has a Geon-512B23. It's brand new and state of the art, compliments of the Crown. I Look forward to working with ya'."

The Chief then said, "And last but not least is …. oh, where the hell is he? Beesa! Front and center." What seemed like he came from out of nowhere, a childlike, non-gender specific creature appeared. It was half the size of anyone else, gray and hairless, and had small delicate eyes, ears, and nose. And its eyes were completely yellow with no pupils or any other features.

The little being said, "Beesa here to greet new shipmate. Beesa say hi." Beesa waved happily to Dance.

"This is Beesa," said the Chief. "He always talks in 3rd person; that takes some getting used to. He's always happy and glad to see you. The crazy thing about Beesa is that neither he nor anyone else we've ever talked to about him knows where he comes from or even what species he is. As far as anyone has figured out, he's a couple of hundred years old. Oh, and you have to keep your eyes on him. He's faster than a beam of light. I'm not exaggerating either. One second he's a mile away, the next second he's standing right in front of you. He fights like crazy too, and he seems to enjoy it. When you get into a battle with him, you'll hear him laughing."

"Beesa wants to know new friend's name," he said to her.

She had to think about that for a moment first, but then said, "Dance say to Beesa that her name is Dance." She slowly extended her hands, together, opened, and palms up, to Beesa. She extended her right leg forward and crouched down. In a motion that was both a bow and curtsy at the same time. She said, "Dance want to be Beesa's friend. Dance would be happy to be Beesa's friend."

Beesa smiled and bounced off of the walls of the bridge laughing and squealing. "Beesa make new friend. Beesa very happy. Beesa like Dance. Beesa will be Dance's friend. Beesa says to Dance that he will always protect her and will never let bad things happen to her as long as Beesa is around. Yeeeeheeee! Yeeeeheeee!"

A new voice came from the entrance of the flight deck. It was Tok, and she surprised everyone. "How did you do that? Beesa always seems to be a happy little, um, person, but I've never seen him like that."

"Captain!" Dance quickly turned face to face with Tok Barmer herself. She was tall and slender, with tan skin and an alluring figure. Her eyes were big and green, but her most notable feature was her luxuriously long, pure white hair. That was typical for all Jenketty, but Tok's beauty was exceptional by any measure. Dance had trouble reconciling Tok's looks with her reputation as a rough and dangerous privateer, pirate, smuggler, mercenary, and bounty hunter.

"Seriously, how did you do that?" Tok asked again. "What was the bowing thing you did?"

"I learned it in an anthropology class at the academy. It was used in the Deep Distance thousands of years ago as a peace and friendship gesture. I thought I'd give it a shot."

"Very impressive. I'm Tok Barmer."

"Ensign Dance Hollydon, Captain."

"Didn't the Chief get to the rules? No ranks, no titles. I'm the captain, but otherwise, we're all equals here. We're shipmates.

"Yes, ma'am."

"And no ma'ams either. It's Tok, Chief, Beesa, Rory, Lina, Crank, Cheeky, and now Dance – that's it."

"Got it, Tok. I'm flattered you let me part of the crew."

"Forget it. Since we're a Navy privateer, they make me have a Navy grunt as an envoy on board. Most have been idiots, not fit for space duty. Some of them had potential but slipped up. Too many of them are dead. I hope you're different. Chief, give her a couple of guns."

"What?" Dance was surprised by how rapidly things happened.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" the Chief asked.

Tok ignored what he said and roughly emphasized her point with Dance. "Guns. You need guns. You do know how to use a blaster, don't you?"

"Sure I do." The Chief handed Dance a Marcy-448 Power Blaster for her dominant hand and a Rad SB-67R Repeater istol for her off hand. "These are heavy," she said.

Rory gave her some smack about that. "Oooo, the wittle guns are too heavy for da wittle ensign."

The kidding rubbed her the wrong way. "No, what I mean is the barrels are not balanced correctly."

Lina said in a tone the dripped with insult. "Chief, did you hear that? Our prissy little Dance-y girl here is saying you don't know how to fit blasters."

"No, I meant that I know that a blaster barrel needs to be balanced …."

Tok got in her face, "I think you're starting off on the wrong foot, girlie. The Chief's shlits are bigger and stronger than you are. And for you to insult him insults us all. Frock you. Rory, throw her sorry-ass out the airlock. Get her off my ship."

"No, no, no, you've got it all wrong. What is this? You haven't given me a chance at all."

Tok got nose to nose with Dance. "It figures that the Navy would do this. They always send us their waste. They always send us the losers they can't kick out themselves. They always send us the expendable ones that they don't care get blasted into dust and ashes. Worse yet is I have to play nursemaid to them as the cry, cry, cry all day because it's too hard or too uncomfortable or too bloody." Her final insult was the worst. "You don't have the balls to make it out here. You're nothing but target practice for some Collective grunt. You'll be dead in a week. Go home, baby!"

Dance seethed. That was not who she was. She was made of stronger stuff.

But Tok didn't let up. "Cry, little girl. Go bury your head in your pillow. We'll tell you when the hard parts are over so you can pretend to be someone and …."

Insulted, demeaned, belittled, and mad as hell, Dance pulled her main hand blaster up, extended her arm fully, and planted the working end of the gun square between Tok's eyes. "Okay, you crazy bitch, listen to me; I am not some panty-waisted wimp. I can take anything out here. And, at the moment, you're just going to have to take my word for it. If you haven't noticed, I've got a Marcy-448 pointed at your frocking head. All I have to do is pull this trigger and this bridge will get a makeover with your brains. Got it?"

Lina got up out of her chair and started to approach. Dance raised her off-hand blaster and pointed it at her head too. "Sit down, Lina. This is between Tok and me."

Lina put her hands up like she surrendered to Dance's command and sat back down. "No problem. You and Tok hammer this out."

For a few moments, there was a standoff on the flight deck. But Dance didn't give a millimeter. She stood solid and resolute with the nozzle of her blaster aimed right at Tok's frontal lobe.

Tok smiled slyly. She asked, "Chief, how did she do?"

"She knows how to hold a gun. Her hands are nice and steady, but her stance needs work."

"What?" Dance was confused. "What are you talking about?"

Without moving her head, Tok's gaze shifted to Lina. "Lina, did she actually aim at your head, or did she just pull the gun up and point it?"

"She made a good aim, Tok. I'd be goners."

"Goners?"

Tok smirked, "Yeah, me too. I could see her eye right down the barrel." She slowly moved her hand up and pushed the blaster barrel away from her forehead. "No one is going to kill anyone today, Dance. These are decorations off the wall of the armory; they're dummies. They haven't fired a shot in years. I just wanted to see what you're made off. You did fine."

"You mean this was a setup?" Dance asked.

"More like a test," said Tok. Everyone relaxed. "You passed with flying colors too. And I love your attitude. Remind me to never get you pissed off at me. You're in a new environment, with new people and conditions. You were vulnerable to getting rattled and not being able to respond appropriately, but you did just fine. Out here you operate on instinct, not analysis. Your reaction to our adversarial behavior was exactly correct. Plus, there was the added bonus that your weapon handling was spot on. Nice job."

Lina's hostile and mean demeanor disappeared too. She pulled Rory's arms around her and kissed him deeply and wildly. "How was my acting, baby?" she asked.

Rory was obviously her lover. "You did great, hun. I loved the surrender thing."

Lina then shimmied her half-naked body up against Dance. "You know, Dance, you are one hot babe when you're holding a blaster. It made me all tingly inside, and I like feeling all tingly."

"What?"

The Chief said, "I'll issue you the real things. And by the way, you were right about them being unbalanced. I did that on purpose. Good pick up on that. I was a weapons master in the Navy. I know how to balance a blaster. I guess that brings us to rule #1. You know all those lectures on the code of conduct and rules of engagement that bored you at the Academy?"

"Yeah. They were boring."

"Well, out in the Frontier only rule #1 matters: kill or be killed. This little test was to make sure you won't freeze on us when it gets rough."

Even Beesa was happy. "YeeeeHeeee, Beesa's new friend passed Tok's gun test. Beesa's new friend part of crew now."

Tok smiled at her new shipmate. "Dance, welcome aboard the Stella Avalon."

"The first thing you need to do is put on some civilian clothes," Tok said.

"That's going to be a problem," said Dance. "The Academy laundry messed up my clothes, and I didn't have enough time, or money, to get more. Other than three uniforms all I have is my pajamas, a couple of bras, socks, and underwear."

"You were planning on wearing the same three uniforms over and over again?" Tok asked.

"Yeah, I guess so." Dance was embarrassed. "And as far money goes, an Academy-grad Ensign's pay is near the bottom of the pay scale charts. A lot of Academy grads come from moneyed families. I don't. My folks are gone. I've only got about a hundred credits. That's all."

"So, you did the whole Academy thing on your own," Tok said. "That must have been hard. Very commendable."

"Thanks, but I'm still broke."

"Well, it's a good thing you're on the Stella Avalon. All that is going to change." They sat down in Tok's cabin. "Do you drink? What's your poison?"

Dance said. "I usually drink Porsis, maybe a Saverian Whiskey."

"I've always got some Saverian Whiskey on board." She grabbed the distinctive octagonal shaped bottle off of a shelf and poured the drinks. "Porsis is hard to come by out here, but we can pick some up somewhere along the line. Let me tell you how things work. Remember, we're Privateers, That means we have an official commission to go out and intercept shipping, engage enemy combatants, do as much damage as we can, and generally be a pain in the ass to the Collective or whatever I think advances the security of The Crown Commonwealth of Margra. And as far as money goes, we get prize money on anything we can get our hands on: ships, material, outlaws, anything except for something the Navy specifically asks for. When we bring the loot back to Margra, a prize agent converts it to cash for us. The Navy pays us a finders fee for their stuff. All the profit is split ten ways. You, The Chief, Lina, Rory and Beesa each get one-tenth. I get five-tenths, but I cover all the expenses. The Navy maintains Stella. We make a good living on this ship."

"So, we're licensed pirates. Do we operate only in Collective space?"

"Nope. We'll spend most of our time in the Frontier, sometimes in Collective space, and even sometimes in Crown space. We even go out into The Deep Distance sometimes. While we're in Crown space, I have what is called a Writ of Immunity for all of us. It's a get-out-of-jail-free card. I just have to make sure I don't abuse it. In the Frontier, our legal status doesn't matter because there are no organized planetary federations or alignments of any kind binding the planets together; we're just pirates. But when we're in Collective space, we're spies. If we get caught there, it's more than likely we'd be given a quick and dirty show-trial and a quicker and dirtier execution. And we can't wear uniforms or any kind of Navy emblems or identification. If any of us wore a uniform, it could be construed that whatever we were doing in their space was a military incursion. The Crown sure as hell doesn't want that. Nobody does."

"Don't the treaties with the Collective set the rules of engagement with them?" Dance asked.

"All those treaties, no matter how well-intended they were, are worthless. The only reason both sides don't get into each other's grill militarily is that our shows of force create a situation where both sides would be annihilated if actual war broke out. But conflicts do need to occur to keep things stable; they're pressure releases. That's where we come in. We go and antagonize the Collective, we all get to shoot at each other every now and then, a few of us and them die, and we all go home at the end of the day with each side claiming victory, But there's more. Sometimes more intense missions have to take place, missions that, by their clandestine nature, can't be seen as being performed by the Navy or any of the Crown forces or agencies. We're the ones who get dirty so the Crown doesn't have to. We create deniable accountability. And the Collective operates privateers in exactly the same way and do the same types of things we do."

"Okay, I get it. But I still don't have any clothes or money to buy anything with," Dance said.

"I can help you with both. I've got a few outfits that I don't wear anymore that I think will fit you. We have similar figures." Dance stood up and opened her locker. She rifled through the rack, pulled out three outfits, and threw them over to Dance. "Okay, first is that brown flight suit. It's handy in battle, it can absorb some blasts with its armor threading, but it can get hot. That's why I don't wear it anymore. Besides, it's ugly. If you want to attract a lover, that is not the outfit to wear."

Dance then held up what amounted to no more than a bikini top, a pair of stretch leggings, a little skirt-like sash around the hips, and some soft leather boots. "Seriously? You wore this?" Dance asked.

Tok laughed, "When I was younger, yeah. In your case, though you can either wear that or you go naked. Suit yourself."

Dance then held up the third outfit, a super-sleek and super-sexy silver, and gray stretch jumpsuit. She said, "This is cute. It feels like it's been through a lot though."

Tok held it to her face and took a deep whiff of it. "It has. Damn, I love this outfit. I wore it for years. And it looks like it will fit you fine. And talk about being able to take a blast. This was made custom for me on Margra. Try that on first, you'll like it. It's very soft and comfortable."

Dance smelled the outfit too. "You've worn this in combat, haven't you?"

"Yes, many times. Way too many to count," Tok said, "There's a saying in the ranks of mercenaries in the Frontier. When one of them is successful in battle and showed great bravery, it would be said they smelled of smoke and blood."

Dance was impressed with Tok in every way. "That's what it smells like," she said. "It smells like smoke and blood." That triggered a revelation to her. She asked, "Tok, with this assignment, I'm in it deep, aren't I? The Collective, combat, killing, death, war."

Tok understood the nature and concern of Dance's question. Quietly and compassionately, she replied honestly. "Yes, you are, very deep."

Dance asked, "Is it true about how many of the Navy members of your crew have died?"

"Three, yes, and they were all young and enthusiastic just like you. One death is too many though."

"Why did they die," Dance asked. "Was it something they did wrong?"

"They didn't do anything wrong except they weren't ready for this kind of thing," said Tok. "The Academy makes fine Navy officers, but not spacers. It's different out here than what you've been taught. It's very dangerous. There are a lot of people who spend time out here who think war between the Crown and the Collective is unavoidable. I'm not sure yet, but there's a lot of antagonism and posturing going on. And the level of violence is on the upswing, as well as the number of incursions on each side. That's obvious."

"The Navy Commander who recruited me said as much. He said it's very dangerous."

Tok asked, "Was it Calen Root?

"Yes, Commander Root," Dance said.

"He'd know," said Tok. "Be honest with me. More important, be honest with yourself; are you afraid?"

"Yeah, I think I am," Dance said.

"Good. A little fear will help keep you alive. But know that being afraid is not the same as being a coward. I'm afraid a lot of the time too. I should be. There are times when I've been on some worthless chunk of planet, face to face with a goon whose only intent is to kill me so he can collect some bounty on me. There's a one-million-credit bounty from the Collective on my head right now. You better believe I'm afraid; everyone has their guns out and pointed at me. And they'll be a bounty on your head soon enough too. So it's justified to be afraid. But channel your fears toward your's and your shipmates' survival. And always remember that your shipmates have your back."

"I'll remember that. Thanks. It's an honor to be part of this crew," the young spacer said.

Tok put her hand on Dance's shoulder to reassure her. "It's a pleasure serving with you too."

"I do have a personal question though," Dance said. "Is it true what they say about Jenketty men and women?"

Tok laughed. "You mean about us being the best lovers in the Galaxy? That we're the best sex partners? Yeah, it's true. But it's more complicated than it all being about pleasure. There's some important science involved. But that's a conversation for another time."

"And the Chief said to never say the rhyme about Jenketty lovers around you. Is that true too?" Dance asked.

"The Chief is 100% correct about that one! I've killed more than a handful of goons because they thought it was cute to say it to my face. I'm proud of my people and our heritage. Just because other people have hang-ups doesn't mean I have to listen to their shlit. Anyway … C'mon, change into that suit and get back to the flight deck. It's time for us to get to work, or whatever you want to call this."

Dance when back to the bunk room and pulled the slinky jumpsuit on. At first, she zipped it all the way up to her neck. That was how the suit was made; that would have been the proper thing to do. But that was a new time for her: new job, new responsibilities, new friends, new thoughts. Why not also a new look? Why not a new persona? Why not a new Dance Hollydon? She pulled the zipper back down to reveal more of her chest and skin. The tight suit made her have a pronounced and strong cleavage. It was a more daring look for her but somehow more appropriate.

She then looked at her head, her auburn hair actually. It had been in the same Navy approved bun style all four years of her time at the Academy. The bun had to go! So, she let her long hair drop, and she pulled the mop back into a long ponytail that fell down to the middle of her back. She stood at a mirror and checked herself out. "You know what? Not bad, Dance, not bad at all," she said.

"Nope, not bad." It was the Chief at the door. "Ya know, that jumpsuit you have on was kind of a trademark for Tok. And it's more than just a fashion statement. It's actually armor. It can absorb a blaster shot better than some durosteel or epoxycore shielding. Just make sure the blast hits you on the suit and not your head. And you'll be surprised how often that little skimpy outfit comes in handy. Some of the planets in the Frontier are nothing but giant sandboxes. They're dry and hot like an engine afterburner. We all shed some layers when we're on them.

Yeah, I haven't seen that gear out of her locker in quite a while, and that's too bad. She always looks great in it and, I don't know how to describe it, more daring-do or energized. Now, we're not a fashion salon, that's for sure. Living in close proximity like this, we'll see each other's bad sides a lot. But we do try to take pride in ourselves every little way we can. I guess its a personal dignity thing. Anyway, the old silver suit looks good on you too."

The Chief then remembered why he was there. "Ah, well, here, I brought this for you." He handed her a bulky gun belt that she snapped on. It hung low on her hips, and it had several compartments and a knife scabbard with a brand new, shiny, dagger in it. "And these are yours," he said, "and I can assure you, they're balanced perfectly." He gave her two blasters just like the dummies he gave her during her test: a Marcy-448 Power Blaster for her dominant hand and a Rad SB-67R Repeater Pistol for her off hand. She held each of them pointed straight out in front of her with her elbows locked. She swung them up at a forty-five-degree angle first to 12:00, then 6:00, then 9:00, then 3:00, then back to center. She then pointed each weapon straight out to her sides, then crossed her body with them to the opposite sides.

The Chief was impressed. "You know your way around a blaster. I can see that. How do they feel?"

"They feel really good, Chief. They're balanced very nicely. Perfectly, actually," she said. "I've always liked how a Marcy feels. They feel like confidence."

"I know they don't teach those balance moves in the Academy. How did you learn that?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I like guns. I finished first at the Academy in marksmanship. I guess I just picked it up." She slapped them on the clips of her gun belt. "This is a nice kit, Chief. Thanks."

The Chief laughed. "My pleasure, Dance. Well, we better get up to the flight deck. Tok is itching to get out of here."

The entire crew joined Tok on the flight deck. She had plopped down in her Captain's chair with one leg hung over its padded arm, very casual and relaxed. "Remember everyone, first name basis only. I don't want to hear any 'Captains' or 'Ma'ams' or 'Sirs. Isn't that right, Dance?"

The young spacer stepped around everyone to get to her chair at the navigation and data control panel. She looked sleek and sexy in Tok's silver spacesuit, and with big, bad blasters holstered on both hips, she looked dangerous too. "That's right, Tok. First names only," she said with new confidence, a swagger, that everyone noticed.

Tok peered at a cluster of readings on a holo-display. She selected a few holo-switches and tapped the back of Dance's chair with her toe. "Where do you want to go, Dance?"

"I'd like to try out these blasters the Chief so beautifully set up for me, that's what."

"Sounds good to me. Let's go find some abandoned piece of rock and have us a blaster party. Any suggestions, anyone?"

Lina spoke up. "How about Tanganaki? No one ever goes there. And there's water and beaches."

"Tanganaki in the Frontier it is. Give me a sec, Dance. I'll get the coordinates for you."

Before Tok could even open her datapad, Dance blazed through a series of switches. "Course is laid in. I've got a green light on the route plotter. We are free to navigate."

At the helm, Rory was caught off guard by Dance's speed at her controls. He had to catch up. "Uh, yeah, roger that; I see green too. We're ready to go, Tok." He then said to Dance, "Wow, that was fast. You're going to have to teach me how you did that."

The Chief laughed. "You're going to have to pick up your game, Rory. We've got us a real navigator now."

Tok said, "Very good, Dance, very good indeed. Well, Rory, what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation from the King and Queen? Kick it!"

Rory turned to Dance. "Would you like the honors?"

"I'd love to." The young spacer reached over to Rory's station and pressed a big, red button in the middle of the control panel. The ship pivoted away from Margra and onto the first leg of Dance's route to the planet Tanganaki. And in less time than a blink, Stella disappeared into The Deep Distance.

THE END

Coming soon – Part 2 Tanganaki


End file.
